


Working up the Nerve

by TabithaJean



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Casual Scully, Chef Mulder, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Episode: s07e04 Millennium, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:40:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28096308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TabithaJean/pseuds/TabithaJean
Summary: Scully unexpectedly stops by Mulder's apartment with some Christmas decorations. They decorate the apartment together, and Mulder considers how to progress their relationship. Christmas fluff!
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	Working up the Nerve

He almost didn’t hear the door knock over Frank Sinatra. He’s greeted by a large cardboard box, resting on a raised knee, fingers desperately clutching the sides. Two determined eyes and a little nose peek over the top, framed by a beanie hat.

‘Scully, what are you doing!’ Mulder prises the box from her. ‘What the hell is in this thing? It weighs a ton.’

‘I found one of Big Blue’s eggs, didn’t I tell you?’

‘And people say she’s not funny.’ Mulder puts the box on the table and stretches his back. Scully has flat hat-hair, with rogue strands standing to attention, and she wears old sports gear under her big Winter coat. She looks entirely at home in his unkempt apartment. She sticks her nose in the air and sniffs.

‘Are you cooking?’

‘Spaghetti,’ he says, tapping the box. ‘You haven’t told me what’s in here.’

‘Some old decorations from my mom’s house,’ Scully says tentatively. She focuses on his shoulder as if she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t. ‘We were sorting her things for her new condo today. You don’t have any decorations. So, I thought maybe you could use them.’

She’s right. There are no, nor have ever been any, Christmas decorations at 42 Hegel Place. Mulder sees his apartment as she might: his coat stand is missing an 8 ball from the top, the near-empty basket of apples teeters over the edge of the coffee table, the print sits crookedly on the wall above the TV. His desk is doing its best impression of an archaeological dig, with paper stacked and piled in a system known only to him, but to anyone else would seem unmanageable. He looks at the box reluctantly, not wanting to disrupt his consciously cluttered haven. But then there’s Scully biting her bottom lip and looking at him from under cautious eyelids, assessing whether she’s made a mistake.

‘This place does look a little sparse, doesn’t it,’ he says, hands on hips. She gives a short, firm nod, lifting her head higher with this boost. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got here.’

There are baubles, some old lights, and tinsel which has seen better days. Scully wants to take it all out for a stock take, categorising it all, but Mulder refuses.

‘Oh no, Scully.’ He shakes his head. ‘If we’re going to do this, we’re doing it the good old-fashioned grab-bag style. You pick one, I’ll pick one.’

‘But then we won’t know what goes together, or what the right order should be!’ Two tiny lines appear in between her eyes, her equivalent of stamping her foot. He smiles, knowing it will deepen her frown.

‘And that, my dear Scully, is how the magic happens.’

Mulder is surprised at how much fun they have. There are logistics. How to hang the lights from the picture rail, how to attach the baubles to the wall. A discussion on whether blu-tac or Scotch tape would be more suitable for the task. They both sing along to ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ and laugh when they realise neither knows the lyrics beyond the first verse.

‘Shame we don’t have a tree,’ he remarks. She hums, holding her finger up, and starts to rummage through the box, bending deeper and deeper in until all he can see is the small of her back as she searches. Finally, she rights herself, grasping a small table-top tree. Green tinsel is stuck to the side of her hair and her sweater is covered in old polystyrene balls.

‘Ta-daa!’ She sings, putting the tree proudly on top of the TV and smoothing her hair. She is bold, purposeful, goofy and generous, searing herself onto his heart so that it burns with exquisite pain. His next inhale stutters with the force of it, and he almost has to look away.

‘That’s it?’ he asks, leaning into his favourite façade. ‘You call that a tree?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, was my box of free, vintage decorations not good enough for you? Shall I go and cut down a Spruce to go with it?’

‘Look at it, it’s the perfect height for Frohike!’ He exclaims. ‘But it does look pretty darn good there next to the reindeer with only one antler. It fits with my new Christmas aesthetic.’

‘I guess it’s a stretch to call them vintage decorations,’ she laughs, and his chest aches with affection. He can’t remember what happened when he was sick with his brain disease, but when he woke up, it was with the confident knowledge that she loves him. He knows it in the way elephants hear with their feet: he’s tuned into their vibrations, into the sounds of their depth. When he thinks of his time in the coma, he sees people who betrayed him, people who have loved and left him, but above all he _feels_ Scully. She is constantly everywhere and nowhere. The question is, what to do about it.

By the time they’ve finished, his apartment has the look of a retro-eighties Christmas, with paper decorations hanging from the ceiling framed by colourful, blinking lights. She’s dusting her hands and putting the box in his closet as he fastens the final piece to the top of his door frame.

‘Hey Scully, get over here, would ya?’ he asks, jittery. ‘Come tell me what you think of this one.’

She looks up at the last minute to see they’re standing under mistletoe. A grin spreads over her face and she blushes as she backs into the living room again.

‘Mulder, no.’

‘Ah, Scully, don’t go all Scrooge on me,’ he teases, masking his earlier sincerity. ‘It’s just a Christmas tradition.’

‘It’s tacky,’ she says, her eyes back to his shoulder rather than his face as she tries to read the moment. ‘It’s just not me. Even as a joke.’

‘Ok, I hear you.’ He puts his arm around her and squeezes her shoulders. She lets out a surprised ‘oh!’, and after a beat, snakes an arm around his waist as they admire their handiwork. ‘Thank you for the decorations. They really do brighten up the place.’

‘They do, don’t they? I just knew all it needed was some Christmas cheer.’

‘As always, you know best,’ he says, and she looks at him in mock-surprise. ‘Think of that as my reciprocal gift for you. Now will you stay for dinner, please?’

He catches her slurping her spaghetti, sauce spilling over her lips and chin. She wipes her hands down her already dirty sweater and smiles at him with cheeks full of pasta. _I’ll kiss her soon_ , he thinks to himself. _Not now, but very soon._


End file.
